Revenant
by NotFlyingWithOtters
Summary: Post Reichenbach. Revenant - One returns after a death or long absence. Oneshot


**_Hello... I got bored and I needed to write this. It's been on the backburner for ages. I hope you enjoy_**

* * *

_"How would you describe me, John?" The words hung in the air, open and unexpected. "Dynamic? Resourceful?"_

_"Late." There was a soft chuckle and then Sherlock appeared in front of him, eyes glittering in the dark of the tunnel._

_"I'd say just in time myself." John smiled, he couldn't help it._

_"Perhaps." He mused, grinning. Then the scene changed and he was standing on the pavement, looking up from far below. He could see the shape of Sherlock standing on the roof of Saint Bart's hospital. His long coat flapped around him and he felt the cool air rush past him as he watched his friend fall through the air. His eyes closed to slits as the bike hit his arm and he dropped to the ground._

_"No!" Sherlock was lying on the ground, blood pooling around him and his eyes half slitted open. __  
__"I'm a doctor let me through please." No one was listening and they kept throwing him back, away from the body of his friend. He grabbed at the pale wrists, scrabbling for a pulse. Weak, thready, gone. He stumbled backwards, shock settling in._

_The scene changed again, it was the old nightmare, back with a vengeance. Rifles cracked, machine guns rattled and thundered around him, his hand was loose on the trigger of his gun. The sun blinded him momentarily as he heard a cry and someone call his name._

_"Medic! Medic we need a medic! John!" He turned and his breath caught in his throat. Sherlock was lying on the ground, broken and bleeding, eyes closed. Those beautiful grey eyes shut and his angular face paper white._

_"Sherlock..." His hands trembled as he saw the steady spread of scarlet along the sandy uniform and staining the silvery sand beneath him._

* * *

John awoke with a shout half formed on his lips, it died almost instantly. There was no one to hear him shout. His eyes were brimming and angrily he dashed them away. It had been a while since he'd dreamed of Sherlock's death, and he began to wonder why it was occurring now. He looked at the luminous hands of his alarm clock and closed his eyes. Three years had passed. Three years to the day in fact.

The hands of the clock had slipped past three in the morning, like a bizarre mockery of his grief. He stared at the white ceiling above him for a while, the light through the windows diffusing into the room and creating a grey, watered down tone in the sparsely furnished room. He twisted in the bed sheets and sat up, lowering his eyes. He didn't look towards the window, where the paparazzi were gathering already on the doorstep. Did they never sleep? Did they get kicks out of his pain?

He shrugged on a white and blue checked shirt and a tie, Sherlock never wore ties and it seemed odd that John was wearing one for him. He ran a hand through his hair, military short again, and tugged on his black jacket, pausing for a few moments to straighten the sleeves down past his wrists. His eyes were downcast as he looked at his hands, before thrusting his hand in his pocket. A scrap of paper rustled against his hand. He drew it out, his eyes unfocussing with tears as he read the words scrawled on in spidery handwriting.

_Believe in Sherlock_

It wasn't Sherlock's. He knew that, but similarly he knew he hadn't worn this jacket in a year. He looked at it and crumpled it again, sliding it back into his pocket. He closed his eyes and opened them again, looking to see it anything has changed; it hadn't. With a soft sigh, he opened the front door ad savoured the last few moments of quiet before braving the stairs and exiting onto the street.

As the 'blogger detective', Sherlock had become a minor celebrity, and his death had caused the nation to reel in shock. John walked in a haze, the flashing camera bulbs in front of him meaning nothing. A sleek black car pulled up smoothly and he got inside, no idea of ceremony, just got into the car and shut the door behind him.

"Doctor Watson." Mycroft's greeting was brusque, but not unkind.

"Mr Holmes." John had given up with first name now; it was just their way of getting along. He felt like Mycroft hated him, almost as though he'd never been in Sherlock's life. It was his fault that Sherlock had got famous, and subsequently been owed a fall. On the flipside was that Mycroft had set up the fall perfectly. But blames aside, both of them had meant that John was once again alone. Mycroft touched his shoulder, shaking him out of his thoughts.

"Doctor Watson... When you're ready." John nodded and sighed.

"Thank you." Silently he left the car, the paparazzi had dropped behind by now, and walked to the black marble gravestone.

"Hello." He swallowed thickly and placed a hand on the smooth stone. "I miss you." Nothing profound. With a small movement, a tear was jerked from his eyes. "I remember what I said that day. Sherlock I remember. And I stand by it. I haven't given up on you."

"Refreshing to know." A baritone drawled behind him. He turned, angry at the bloody paparazzi for intruding now, at his most private grief. He can't really see, tears crowded his eyes. All he could see was a suit, top button of the shirt undone, and no tie. A hand went to touch his shoulder and, reflexively, he lashed out.

"What the hell do you want? Haven't you got enough photos? Why can't you leave me alone! My best friend is dead and you all get kicks out of it. Just stop!" He cried out, his fist connecting with skin. He angrily wiped his face, and fixed his gaze on the man on the floor, expecting to see a journalist. His heart stopped.

"John?" Sherlock's - for John's brain had finally kicked in and Sherlock was right in front of him - voice was gentle, quiet. He sank to the floor, his body weak and trembling.

"I... I must have finally lost it." His voice is cracked.

"No." Sherlock struggles up, blood slowly trickling down his face from John's punch. "No, you haven't."

"You can't be here!" He shouts at him, the tears he'd wiped away returning with a vengeance.  
"When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable must be the truth." He spoke quietly, his hand seeking out John's.

"But you're... There." He pulls his hand away and points to the grave.

"No." He shakes his head. John looked then, really looked, and he was shocked at what he saw. Sherlock is thin, but ridiculously so, his collar and cheekbones even more prominent than before. His hair is overlong and matted, dull in the sunlight. There's no glitter in his iridescent eyes. He's paler than before, deep purple circles under his eyes. John skips over the blood, that's his fault, and continues flicking his eyes over the man in front of him.

His shirt is too large; where the buttons used to strain there's now an abundance of material. The shirt is also stained, tattered and looks singed in some places. Tentatively, John touches Sherlock's hand. It's warm, solid, real. He traces the shape of his fingers, up to his wrist. Sherlock stops him before he can slide his fingers under the shirt cuffs.

"Not... Not here." His face looks pained. John nods and settles for kneeling up and trailing his fingers over Sherlock's face. He pauses at the trail of blood coming from his nose, wiping it away with his thumb. His gaze catches Sherlock's.

"I'm sorry." He whispers quietly, his hand still cupping his face.

"No... I am. Let me explain. I'll answer anything you want." John nods and let's his fingers brush over Sherlock's pale face, across his cheekbones. He gently tips Sherlock's chin up, using on finger to trail down his neck and then back up. There's a barely-there shudder under Sherlock's skin and he softly tangles his fingers into Sherlock's hair. Sherlock bows his head and closes his eyes as John works his was down, feeling his vertebrae and travelling down to the crest of his hips. John's hands pause there, and Sherlock looks up.

"Do you trust me?" John whispers, not wanting to destroy the near silence.

"Always." John takes his hands off Sherlock's hips and cups his face in both hands. Slowly, gently, he leans down and presses his lips to Sherlock's. The detective stiffens for a moment, before responding just as gently. John pulls back.

"I'm not dreaming." His voice is quiet and he stands, holding out a hand for Sherlock to take.

"No." He carefully stands, wincing a little. John doesn't let go of his hand.

* * *

John makes tea. It's all he can think of doing. Making tea. The shower is still running, and Sherlock has been in there a while. Sherlock. It still feels... Different. Almost wrong. He should be angry, but the sight of Sherlock so weak and vulnerable in front of him made his anger disappear. He drinks his tea slowly, sipping and swallowing, focusing on that.

He hears the bathroom door open, then the door to Sherlock's bedroom. He stays at the table until Sherlock comes back in, wearing a plain black t shirt and a pair of pyjama trousers. He smoothly pushes the other cup of tea towards him and returns to his.

"I owe you an explanation."

"Yes."

"I'm sorry."

"I know." Sherlock closes his eyes at this response.

"What do you want me to say?"

"Why." Sherlock nods slowly.

"He had guns trained on you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. Unless they saw me jump they were going to kill you all." John nods again.

"Three years is a long time." He drops his gaze.

"I took down a whole crime syndicate." Sherlock reaches for John's hand but the doctor pulls it away. "I did it to keep you safe."

"I missed you so much."

"I know. It was hell."

"I slept away from the flat for six months."

"I sent you the jumper on your birthday. Mycroft threatened to disembowel me if I did it again."

"That was you?" Sherlock nodded.

"I was desperate to let you know I was alive."

"Why didn't you just tell me?"

"You would have forced me not to do it."

"You left me."

"I didn't want to."

"I saw you die. Over and over. You were in my dreams."

"I'm sorry."

"I needed you."

"I know." Sherlock flushes with shame, his pale features bathed in red.

"Why did you come home?"

"For you."

"For me?"

"Yes. For you, always for you."

"I kissed you." John keeps his gaze steadily on the coaster, clutching his mug tightly.

"I kissed back." Sherlock breathes out a long shaky breath.

"What does that mean?" He bites his lip, still looking at the coaster.

"I don't know." He looks up, hoping John will too.

"You were dead."

"But I'm not."

"But you were." Sherlock reaches for John's hand again and is relieved when he doesn't pull away this time.

"I tried to move on. I really tried." John murmurs, fixing his gaze on Sherlock's face. "I tried to get past that you were dead and be happy."

"But you couldn't."

"What does that tell you about me?" He stares solidly at him.

"That you never really gave up on me."

"Wrong." John looks at their hands on the table. "Do you need me to spell it out for you?"

"No I think... I think I understand." Sherlock looks at him with wide eyes.

"Say it."

"I love you too, John." He squeezes John's hand lightly. "That's why I came back."

"I know."

* * *

_"How would you describe me John? Dynamic? Resourceful?"_

_"Revenant." Sherlock looks at him, eyes bright._

_"Yes."_

John wakes, tangled around Sherlock. He listens to his heartbeat, comforted by the steady rhythm. He stirs a little and Sherlock wraps an arm around his waist, his breath warm against John's neck.  
Three years. Three years brought him home. John breathes in his scent and curls up against him.

_Home._

**Revenant - one returns after a death or long absence**

* * *

**_Drop me a line if you liked it_**


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